Shadows
by CCgirlie
Summary: A Russian farmboy's family is murdered by the KGB. To avenge their deaths and protect the only family he has left he immerses himself in a world of espionage and brutality. A fanmade backstory for Verund from Shirow's "Appleseed" manga.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

A seven-year-old boy with platinum blonde hair and pale blue eyes bounced his two-year-old sister on his hip as he surveyed the landscape outside the kitchen window of a small farmhouse in Russia. The snow had subsided, at least enough so that he could see the shed and would be able to walk there freely rather than having to cling to the rope line between the building and the house. There was firewood in the shed, chopped and stored away by his father in the autumn. He looked between the shed and the little cotton-topped girl who was beginning to drift off to sleep. When she finally went down for her nap, he decided, he would bring back as much firewood as he could carry. It was dangerous to leave his sister alone too often. The KGB was near, and as he'd learned in the last month even without them in the equation, two-year-olds are fast to get themselves in trouble.

It had only been the last two weeks that he'd dared to light fires in furnace or in the fireplace, and then he only braved it then because they had run out of fuel for the generators. His eyes wandered to the doorframe where he had marked off the days since the KGB had come. Forty-seven uneven lines stood testament to the days he and little Katerina had been alone. He shivered whenever he saw the notches, but he couldn't help record them each morning.

The baby's head lay against his shoulder and her breath came out in shallow little snores. Gently he laid her down on the mattress he'd pulled into the kitchen. It made little sense to heat the whole house for only two people, he thought mournfully. That was what his father would have said had he been there. He shuddered again, tears welling up in his eyes at the unbidden reminders of the missing members of his family. A mere forty-eight days ago the whole house had been almost alive with energy. Had it been an afternoon back then, before he started marking tallies on the doorpost, he would have been wrestling with his three older brothers at that time, getting scolded by their ruddy-faced mother as she cooked dinner. In about an hour, if it were a good day, the boy's father would come in, weary from work, but still taking time to join in the roughhousing. It didn't matter anymore, he thought, no amount of remembering or wishing would bring back the rest of his family. It had been a miracle that he'd been able to keep Katerina silent as they hid in a closest in the cellar.

He slid on his boots and pulled on his coat, hat, and gloves. With one more glance at his sister, he hurried out into the freezing air. He rushed as much as he could through the deep snow, though his legs sunk down to just above his knees. Inside the small shed his father had stacked enough wood to last the winter just in case they had to do without government-rationed fuel. The boy made eighteen trips back and forth from the shed to the house and back again. His lungs felt as though they would bleed from the stinging lashes of the cold as he drew in hungry gulps of air. Despite the subfreezing temperature, he sweated as he struggled to load the kitchen down with enough wood to hopefully last the week. When he got back into the kitchen he leaned over Katerina, checking to make sure she was actually still alive, there with him. She cooed a little, squirming in her sleep as he brought a tired hand up to her cheek. He wished he could curl up next to her and sleep, but if he did that it would get colder in the house. They could freeze in their sleep and join the rest of their family. Shaking off the thought, he grabbed up an armload of firewood and went down to the furnace in the basement. It was a surprisingly efficient system, for one that was almost twenty years old. The amount of energy usually expended for a fire, would not only heat the house but also run the power for a few hours. The boy had made it stretch even further by cutting off the power to the upstairs and back rooms, heating only the kitchen, living area, and one bathroom. He was glad his father had taught him how to do that some years ago, as now it saved him trips through the deep snow to get wood. He was using a flashlight to navigate the gloom of the basement, but when he opened the furnace door the fire gave off enough of a glow that he could turn it off for a little while as he rummaged through a tall shelf crowded with cans and jars of food. He grabbed a can of tuna and a jar of apple preserves. That should do for supper, he thought, tucking the jar under his arm as he threw a few logs into the fire with the other hand. Closing the heavy iron door, he flicked the flashlight on and made his way back upstairs.

Setting the food down on the table, he lay down next to his sleeping sister. He looked up at the wooden beams that ran across the kitchen ceiling, letting his eyes relax until the knots of the wood started to look like people and animals, and drifted into a light sleep, imagining stories for the beings. Had it been another day, he would have… no it didn't matter; it wasn't another day. There was no changing that.

**Chapter 1**

The rumble of a truck engine woke Verund. Outside the setting sun started to leave streaks of orange in the sky. He didn't wait to see whom the truck belonged to, but grabbed up his little sister and hurried back to the cellar. She woke slightly, grumbling and rubbing her eyes. "Shhh, Katerina," he whispered as he rushed down into the darkness below. He only flicked the flashlight on for a moment, just long enough to be sure that the path to the closet was still unobstructed.

"I scared," Katerina said sleepily, her small hands clinging tightly around his neck as he tried to set her down behind him.

"Shhh," he repeated. "I'll be here." He grabbed the pistol his father had sent him down with the day the rest of his family had been killed by KGB soldiers. With a little more whispered bidding, he successfully put her down, although she clung to the back of his shirt. He aimed the pistol at the closed door. If anyone came through it they were dead. He vaguely thought that he had no idea what he would do when he ran out of bullets, but it didn't matter. All he knew was that he had to keep her safe; keep her safe as long as he could.

Above them he heard knocking on the door. A minute passed and another knock came, a heavier one. He heard a muffed voice shout something he couldn't make out, then there was a loud crash as the door was kicked in. Above him, he heard the footsteps of many booted feet, then a man's voice called again. "Stas! Stas!" His father's name; of course no answer came, and so the footsteps continued. The voice now called his mother and his oldest brother, "Liza! Sasha! Anyone!?"

Behind him, Katerina trembled with fear. "It's the bad men," she whispered.

Verund was beginning to have his doubts that these were KGB, though. There was something very familiar about the calling voice although he could not pin it. He wanted to go out, see who the voice belonged to, but he couldn't. Even if he could shake the fear that held his feet rooted to the cellar floor, how could he justify going out there? What if it was the KGB? If they killed him who would care for Katerina? What if they killed Katerina? Aside from that, the idea of dying was frightening enough in and of itself. He was no hero; he was a farm boy from Vyshni. He didn't even know why the KGB had attacked his family. All he knew was that his mother had forced he and his little sister into that closet over a month ago with the words, "Verund, take care of Katerina. If the soldiers come, kill them. Kill them all, or they will kill you both. I love you." And that was it. She was gone.

Above them the cellar door opened. He heard the voice grow louder. "Men, search the house." A pause and he heard more muffled voices. "How many? No, there were four boys and a little girl." Another indistinguishable reply came from inside the house. "I don't care. I want you, all of you, to scour the house. Don't leave a single room unchecked. If those children are here, we have to find them." Verund shuddered as he heard the second to last step squeak loudly as the man walked on it. They would be found out, and what would he do then? If he followed his mother's orders and killed them, he could take the truck, maybe drive out to his aunt and uncle's house. He wondered if they were still alive, if anyone's life was still normal. Under the door, Verund saw the light of a search lamp sweep over basement. When it stopped on the door, the light piercing in and illuminating his black-socked feet, Katerina let out a little cry. Verund turned fast to her, his eyes wide with shock, but he turned back quickly to the door as he heard the voice say. "Katerina? Verund?" The boy turned back to his sister with his finger to his lips. She pursed her lips and gave him a scared nod. The voice called out again. "Kids, it's your father's friend, Ruslan." Verund breathed a little easier. He remembered Ruslan as a serious but kind man who came to the house from time to time. The man continued. "I know what happened to your family. We're here to take you somewhere safe."

Verund took a deep breath. He forced his shaking hand to reach out and turn the doorknob. In his other hand, he still held the pistol, aimed out towards the light as it poured over him and his sister.

Ruslan Golitsin was no longer startled by the reality of war, and one of those realities was the look in the eyes of children when the war had touched them. So when the light fell on the faces of Verund and Katerina, he was not shocked. But the lack of shock did not mean the lack of sorrow, the little girl, whose face barely showed from behind her brother's back, had her eyes shut tight as though not seeing the horrors she expected would keep them from happening. The boy was shaking in spite of his efforts to look brave, his right hand trembling heavily as he tried to aim the pistol at the older man. Ruslan lowered the light so that the boy could see him easier. "I'm not going to hurt you," the man said softly, holding out his hands to show they were empty.

Both children were grimier than they would have been had their mother been alive to care for them. The boy's hair had grown out shaggy and both of them looked a bit disheveled. It had only been three months since Ruslan had been to the house, but he was apt to believe that he would have never recognized the children if he had seen them on the street. "You've been on your own a while," Ruslan said. It wasn't a question, but Verund nodded and lowered his weapon hesitantly.

"Forty-seven days," he said softly.

"That _is_ a long time," the man said, taking a step towards the closet, grateful that the boy didn't raise his gun again.

"What do you want?" Verund said, his voice was hollow and his eyes empty now that most the fear had left them.

"I just want to make sure you and your sister are safe." He took another step, and the boy stood a little taller. "I can bring you to family members, someone who can watch out for the both of you."

Verund nodded again and stepped out the closet, his arm around Katerina's shoulders, guiding her. She gave a scared little cry as her feet began to move, but Verund looked down at her and said gently, "It's okay, Kat. No one's going to hurt us today."

Upstairs in the living room, the other men had laid out the bodies of Verund's other family members. He had wanted to bury them, but the ground was frozen so solid that he had been unable to dig the graves. Instead he had buried them deep in the snow, packing it tight around the bodies and marking each body with a cross he'd made with scraps of lumber from the shed. He hadn't figured out what he'd do in the spring when the snow began to melt but the ground was still frozen.

Seeing the bodies, Verund trembled again, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Ice had crystallized over them, giving them a look even stranger than the pall of death. In his arms Katerina held her arms out. "Mommy!" she called, pleading as though her voice could call back the woman's spirit. "Mommy, wake up!"

"Mommy's not waking up," Verund whispered to her, holding her hands back next to her body. He looked back at Ruslan questioning.

"We can't bury them," the man said, "but we have to do something." He hesitated for a moment, unsure how the boy would take what he was about to say. "Normally in cases like this we burn the bodies with the house." It took care of the bodies, and gave the KGB one less building to take over. It was practical, even if it wasn't sentimental.

Verund looked at the bodies of this family, without responding for a long moment. When he finally did answer his voice was filled with a quiet resignation. "I'm going to get some stuff together for Katerina and I," he said.

The older man gave a small nod, and asked as gently as he could, "Is it okay if we take the food and supplies?"

"Yeah," Verund said emotionlessly, turning and heading up the stairs to pack what he felt he and his sister would need. It was hard, deciding what to keep and what to lose forever. Part of him wanted to go back down and order the men to leave them in peace. But he knew, in the end, they were right. He and Katerina couldn't keep living in that house. The only thing that had kept the KGB from coming back to strip the house bare was the heavy blizzards that had just let up the night before.

In the end, he packed only the necessities. He had shared a room with his eleven-year-old brother, Osip. It hurt to see his bed neatly made and all his things, knowing that Osip would never again have need of them. That was the real reason he'd avoided the rest of the house, he realized. He stuffed his things into an empty pillowcase, and then went to his parents' room to gather Katerina's belongings and stuff them in another pillowcase. As he worked, Katerina played with some of her toys. He was glad that despite everything she endured, she was still happy.

After he stuffed some of her toys into the pillowcases, he went back downstairs. There were only three rooms upstairs, the room he shared with his brother, his parents' room, and a bathroom. At the foot of the stairs was the room that his oldest brothers, Sasha and Nikita. He didn't even bother to open it. He could see the room in his mind, there was nothing he needed there, and no need to be reminded of things he could not change.

He avoided the living room for the same reason, that and he didn't think he could stand hearing Katerina cry for their mother again. Mercifully Ruslan was in the kitchen. He was talking to two of the other men, but turned to the children when they walked in. "Do you need anything else?" he asked Verund, but the boy shook his head.

Verund looked around the kitchen and was surprised to see that the men had already stripped it of most of its contents, with the exception of the kitchen appliances, the dining set, and the pictures from the walls. The photos reminded him he should take an album with him, if only so Katerina would know what her family looked like. "Yes," he said, correcting himself. Pulling his sister up into his arms, he quickly rushed back upstairs to his parent's room. He went back down to the kitchen with a fat album under the arm not holding Katerina.

"Do you want to go say your final goodbyes?" Ruslan asked him, gesturing to the living room.

Verund looked to the door, giving it serious consideration, but responded coldly, "Do you think they'll hear me?"

Ruslan gave a short sigh, looking between the door and the two surviving children. "No," he said honestly.

Verund and Katerina sat in the back of the truck as they drove down the road. He could still see the smoke from the fire billowing over the treetops, blotting out the stars from the night sky. In his arms, Katerina had fallen asleep again. As he watched the smoke rise up, he wondered where he would go from there, but it was sure that even if he did move in with his relatives, life would never go back to normal. Not really.


	2. Chapter 2

When they reached the outskirts of the city, the trucks pulled into a warehouse that looked abandoned. Ruslan climbed out the cab as soon as they stopped inside the building. "Verund, you stay in here with Katerina," he said, pulling a box out the truck bed. "I'll be back in a little while and we'll go to your aunt's house." Verund nodded and shifted his sister's weight a little, trying to alleviate the numbness of his left arm. She mumbled in her sleep when he shifted her, her little grubby fingers clutching onto the front of his gray sweater he wore under his heavy coat. He'd been wearing the sweater for a week, having run out of clean clothes pretty early on. He knew a little about washing clothes, he just hadn't really seen the need for it. It wasn't as though they were going anywhere, and so as long as the clothing didn't have a horrible smell he and his sister had worn them. Baths, too, had gone down to the bare minimal, Katerina getting more of them than he did, only because she had a great tendency to coat herself in things: jelly, milk, glue, pretty much anything she got her hands on.

Verund sighed as he looked down at her. Her hair was a bit matted, because no matter what he did, she always cried when he'd tried to brush it, and so he settled on just tying it up so it didn't get into everything. Her round cheeks had light brown streaks on them, and he had no idea where they came from. He licked his thumb, making a face at the taste of mildew still on them from hauling the wood earlier, and gently cleaned her cheeks. She groaned a little in her sleep, turning away from his thumb and holding her hand up languidly to block him. He rolled his eyes when he saw her fingernails. His aunt would be horrified, they were all different lengths and had dirt caked underneath them. In all the time he'd been watching her, he hadn't noticed that her fingernails needed cleaning or cutting. There was no helping without waking her up, though. He held up his palm, curling his fingers in and examining his nail; they were the same as her, only a bit shorter, worn out by hard work.

The hollow sound of a box of food dropping tore him from his inspection, and he began to look around the poorly lit warehouse. It was stocked with boxes and barrels all stacked in neat rows, four deep on each side of the open area with narrow aisled between them. Verund watched with mild interest as the men unloaded the two trucks of the supplies that had belonged to his family. There were men and women standing around with firearms even though none of them were in uniform. It didn't take him long to realize what this operation was. He had heard his father and brothers talk in hushed tones about the resistance. These people, they fought against the people who'd slaughtered his family.

Ruslan came back about a half hour after he left, his face tired and drawn. Verund confronted him before he had a chance to talk. "You're resistance fighters, aren't you?"

Ruslan ran his fingers through his thinning brown hair, debating for a moment what to do now. He should have known the kid would find out, he was smart even if he was young. It had been risky taking them to the warehouse, but on the other hand, it would have been more risky to drive around the town with trucks full of supplies. "Yeah," he said simply, waiting for the boy's reaction before he chose his next course of action.

Verund nodded, looking around for a moment. "How old do I have to be to join?" he asked with a new intensity in his blue eyes.

Ruslan gazed at him for a moment, surprised by the unflinching determination that had entered the eyes that had seemed so empty only moments before. "This isn't playing war, boy," he said slowly, a faint sadness in his voice. "You join us, you die, that is the way of it."

"My parents weren't members of the resistance?" Verund asked, his eyes not leaving Ruslan.

"No," Ruslan answered. They had given supplies, and the man knew that was most likely why they lost their lives, but to tell that to the boy. No, it would do no good to set him against them. People who learned such things as children grew up to seek revenge, and if he were to exact revenge on anyone it would be better that it were the KGB.

"And they're dead, my brother's too," he said, looking away for the first time since they'd started talking to gaze at a boy not much older than himself who was unloading the other truck. "I want to join. To make the army pay for what they did."

Ruslan sighed. "And what of your little sister? Who'll take care of Katerina?"

"My aunt and uncle can do that better than I could," Verund muttered, looking down at the grubby little toddler in his arms.

Ruslan nodded. "The commander is a man named Bogdanskii. I'll call him, if he approves," the man sighed, "you're in." This boy wasn't the youngest child that had joined. They had "adopted" orphans as young as three to train into assassins, but Ruslan had never been comfortable with that idea. He had children of his own, and couldn't imagine them suffering that kind of childhood. On the other hand, were the KGB to kill he and his wife, he would feel more comfortable knowing that his daughters had been trained to fight for themselves. It was a hard call either way; he knew that Stas had been hard-pressed to keep sixteen-year-old, Sasha, out of the Resistance, so he knew that the boy's parents would not have approved of his desire to join the militia. On the other hand, though, they were dead and there was little point worrying about the wishes of people who no longer had them.

He went off a ways, honestly wishing he wasn't the one who had to make this call. Maybe he could convince Verund to go to his aunt and uncle's house if he reasoned with the boy. Looking back over his shoulder at the determined boy, he knew that that wouldn't happen. And if he brought the child there against his will, how long would it be before the boy escaped to exact revenge on his own. Without training and guidance the boy would be dead the first time tried.

"Bogdanskii," the growling voice came over the phone, waiting for his reply.

"I have something you'd be interested in," Ruslan said, glancing over his shoulder again.

"Will it wait till tomorrow?" Bogdanskii asked.

"Undoubtedly," Ruslan answered.

"Till tomorrow then," the commander said and hung up. So another soldier, that was good, he thought, then turned back to one of his subordinates and handed the younger man a computer disc. "Make sure this gets to Moscow, if caught, both you and the information are to be destroyed. Understood?"

The soldier nodded, the fear he felt not showing on his face. When he left the office he fingered a small container that hung on a chain around his neck. It contained a cyanide pill. He was worth less than the information he carried, a million lives outweighed his one; a sigh, yes, that was only right.

By the time Ruslan got back to the truck, Verund had climbed down and laid his little sister in the cab of the truck. Even though she was in her coat and hat, he had laid one of his sweaters over her, tucking it under her like a blanket to keep the cold air out. She still slept as he divided their things between the two pillowcases. Ruslan stood back for a moment watching the boy flip through the thick photo album he'd brought. Now and then, he pulled out a photo and tucked it in his pocket, then finally shut the book and laid it near the pillowcase on the floorboard of the truck. Ruslan approached him, and at the sound of his footsteps, Verund turned around.

"Bring her to my aunt and uncle's," he said softly, looking down at the little girl. "Don't tell them you found me."

Ruslan looked around the warehouse full of supplies, weapons, and grim faced militia fighters. "Are you sure you want this?"

Sure? No, he wasn't sure about that, wasn't really sure about anything. His spine tingled with a tremble he refused to let surface. "Yes," he said, gently closing the door to the truck. "They'll take care of her," he muttered, more for his own benefit than that of his father's friend.

"I'm sure they will," Ruslan said, clapping the boy on the shoulder. Pale blue eyes glare up at his darker ones, as though trying to read if he were telling the truth. "She'll be safe, we'll see to that," he added.

"Promise it?" Verund asked, his jaw clenching at the thought that he was giving up the last of his family.

"I don't promise anything," the man said, shaking his head sadly. "We'll try our best though, make every provision we can."

Verund considered that for a moment. What other options were there, though. To sit and cower at his relatives' house while the army slaughtered whomever they wanted to? All his life his brothers had teased him, he was the mama's boy, the baby brother, and in the end it was hiding that had let him live. He looked down at the photo he still held in his hand; his parent's faces smiled back at him. What good was living with the knowledge that he lived while they died? He sighed. When the commander got there he would bargain, sell his soul if he had to, to keep his sister safe. Maybe regain something lost. Whether it was honor, or just the will to live, he didn't know. "What should I do now?" Verund asked.

"Stay here," Ruslan said, walking around the battered old truck and opening the driver's side door, "there are showers in the back, and one of the other men can point you in the direction of a cot to sleep in. If you really want this, I'm going to tell your family you were killed as well. That way they don't go out looking for you and get the KGB involved. I'd bring you back to my house tonight, but if my family saw you, you couldn't very well pass as dead for long in this town could you?"

Verund shook his head, he knew of Ruslan's youngest daughter. She was the same age as his brother, Osip. He could barely remember her face; only that she was tall and liked to gossip. Thinking about it, Verund doubted that she knew about her father's participation in the resistance. It was be too dangerous of information to leave with her, just as his survival was.

He stood in the dim light of the warehouse, watching as the truck when through the open door, into the dark of night. The door was shut behind them, and Verund's heart dropped a little. He didn't know if he'd ever see her again, and that thought saddened him. She was going to family, though, people who would tell her about the parents and siblings she'd lost. Maybe one day, if all this ended and he were still alive; maybe then they could be a family.

From behind him a redheaded woman came and laid her hand on his shoulder, when he turned she smile. "I'm Avel," she said and waited for him to offer his name, but none came, he just looked at her blankly. "Come on kid, let's get you a shower and a meal."

Verund nodded, just realizing he was hungry, although the thought of eating was unpleasant. Avel led him towards the back of the warehouse, where the lights were a bit brighter, her hand rested on his back. "You have a name, kid?" she asked as they approached the bathrooms.

"Verund," he said, looking into her green eyes for the first time. She was older than him, but not really an adult. He supposed she was only about seventeen or eighteen, and when she smiled down at him, he found himself smiling back even though his chest still ached.

"So you have a name _and_ you can smile," she said with a laugh. "Get cleaned up, Verund. I'll be over there on guard duty, when you get out, I'll show you where to sleep." She handed him a bottle of shampoo she'd been holding in her hand. "See you in a bit."

He nodded, his face once again serious. He'd seen the truck leave and yet it was still slowly dawning that no there was no turning back from the path he'd chosen; at that moment, his aunt and uncle were likely mourning his death and cradling Katerina. In the morning would she call for him, would she even understand why he abandoned her? Abandoned, that word was so cold, so hateful. If she knew what he'd done, would she grow up to hate him? His mind was a jumble of screaming, pleading questions and harsh accusations.

Turning from Avel, to enter the bathroom he finally let himself dwell on those thoughts. The room itself was Spartan and dingy, lit only by a single, bare bulb that was situated on the wall above the piece of polished metal that served as a mirror. Under the warm spray of the shower, he leaned his head against the cinderblock wall and finally let himself cry.


End file.
